Loss
by Elizabeth Arian
Summary: Set after Holmes' 'death' at Reichenbach and what happened when a ghost returns...COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_Hi, just a short fic to let you all know I'm still alive! May carry this on (at a slow pace) if anyone wants me to. Let me know what you think guys and gals xxx_

**Loss**

**Chapter One**

Holmes sat idly, glancing out of the window occasionally but nothing changed. The dreary world carried on without him as he always knew it would. The world looked even more drab through the dirty windows of the bed sit he had been habiting for the past three months; Mycroft had promised he would provide suitable accommodation and send money. Mycroft had lied. Too busy, Holmes bit his bottom lip as he thought of his brother; it had always been the same of course. Too busy, but Holmes had dared to hope that Mycroft would have been at least glad to see him. He sighed. The sound roused a sleeping mess next to him, it grunted. Holmes kicked it and it rolled away. He shuddered. He could not stay this way for long.

Dr. John Watson sat down at his desk and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. The day had been busy and no case had been easy. Lestrade had called again about the Adair murder but Watson could not think of it. Not without Holmes. He had been to Baker Street only once since Holmes' death and he had vowed never to go there again. The stench of death was too much. Mary was gone and Holmes was gone, all within a month of each other. He sighed again. His heart was broken and he couldn't carry on. Lestrade tried to help but it was impossible. He didn't understand. He did not feel Holmes' loss, how could he understand? London went on without Holmes almost as if he had never existed, crime got worse. Watson smiled at this. Holmes would be happy to know that London's underworld at least felt his loss, even if it carried on.

Lestrade was at his wits end. This case was complex, he hated to admit it, in fact every fibre in his body rebelled against it but he admitted it in the end. He needed Holmes. He had never known anyone quite like him. So brave without acknowledging it, fiercely intelligent and yet so caring. Lestrade paused in his thoughts. Yes, Holmes was caring, He must have been. Watson was a wreck; he must have been something if this man was so broken up at his death. Lestrade had felt only regret and a sense of fear. The criminal classes knew of Holmes' death and they were becoming confident, cocky. They were becoming more than Lestrade could handle. More than Scotland Yard could handle. He quietly cursed Holmes. His death had brought the end, the end of peace. Lestrade smiled as he knew Holmes would be pleased that the criminal classes at least remembered his death, and that London at least would never be the same without him.

Mycroft was worried. He hadn't heard from Sherlock in almost a month. He had sent him the money and the address of the flat but he had neither cashed the cheque nor moved into the flat, the landlady was insisting she couldn't keep the room empty for longer than two weeks and Mycroft couldn't keep paying the rent on an empty room. He began biting his nails. Where was he? How could he be so spiteful as to put him through this –again? Mycroft remembered how he had cried the night he had found out his brother had died, then remembered how he had cried when he found out he was alive. He had done everything in his power to keep him safe. Everything. And now he was missing again and Mycroft could feel that gnawing feeling return. He passed a hand over his face and willed his brother to return. Mycroft smiled as he knew that Sherlock would be glad that his brother was being tormented by him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two.**

The night was dark and cold. Holmes shivered but did not sleep. Eyes were watching him from across the room. That being, for it could not be called human, sat watching him. Holmes tried to look away but even if he closed his eyes he could still see it. It seemed to mock his lonliness. The cold eyes gleamed with silent laughter. The bed sit was never silent. Constant movement flooded through Holmes' brain until he could take no more, vulgar shouts from vulgar women and drunken screams filled the air. The being Holmes shared his room with seemed to revel in it, his eyes seemed to grow brighter, Holmes turned away. The smell was suffocating. His body refused to move, each limb screamed in pain every time he moved. He had to move. He forced himself to stand. It was agony but he managed it. The being watched his movements as he struggled to the door. The brilliant eyes seemed to force the door shut, but Holmes resisted its pull and the door flew open. Holmes ran down the decaying stairs and out into the street. The air, although rancid to the casual observer, was to Holmes, the sweetest smell on earth. He breathed it in gratefully.

After a while Holmes began to feel strong enough to organise his thoughts. He must find Watson, the only man he could ever truly count on. He looked down at his clothes and sighed, how could he approach him dressed as he was? He couldn't approach anyone outside this filthy area of London who might recognise him, the shame would never be borne. He sighed again, a disguise was the only option, it was deceitful and unfair, especially to Watson; but he had no choice. He threw the moth-eaten cloak over his head and reduced his height by almost a foot, then he hobbled, groaning every now and then, through the alley and out of his misery.

Dr. Watson smiled. The elderly woman sitting in front of him had not stopped talking since she arrived; he had yet to discover the cause of her visit. Since she wasn't prepared to listen to him, he let her talk and let his own mind wander. He thought of Holmes, as he always seemed to these days. It was a perfect day to be out with Holmes, Watson smiled again. The air was crisp and cold, but the fog was light. The atmosphere is perfect isn't it Watson?

"Dr.Watson?"

Watson blinked and came back to his patient.

"Yes?" He said innocently.

"Don't you think it's strange?" The woman asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, terribly." Watson smiled hoping that would be enough, "Well, I'll see you next week Mrs. Hughes."

Watson guided the old lady out of the door. When she was gone, he sat down and began to dream again. Suddenly the door opened and the maid appeared.

"Yes, Susan?" Watson's voice was weary and it broke Susan's heart.

"There's a gentleman to see you Sir. Looks a bit…shabby."

Watson smiled.

"Thank you Susan, you can send him in."

Watson sighed. He knew who it was, it was the bookseller he had ran into earlier, why some people just couldn't leave well alone he would never know. He stood up to greet the man, if man he was. He hobbled in, a sorry state indeed. Watson smiled awkwardly.

"What can I do for you?" He asked, not really wanting to do anything for the man. He turned away from him after some polite conversation, when he turned back; he fainted.

"Watson?" Holmes voice slipped into Watson's consciousness. He slowly opened his eyes to find someone who looked like Holmes stroking his hand. He sat up and rubbed his head.

"Watson? Are you alright? I'm terribly sorry. I had no idea you would be so affected."

"I'm alright. Holmes?" Tears formed in Watson's eyes and Holmes smiled.

"Yes it's me. I'm sorry I had to deceive you but it was necessary."

Watson, in an involuntary moment of shock and emotion which would never be repeated or admitted to, threw his arms around Holmes' neck. He felt Holmes stiffen but he also felt him smile.

"How on earth are you here? Alive? I thought you were…well, I'd given up hope."

Holmes cleared his throat. He avoided Watson's eyes, for the first time in his life he felt guilty about the way in which he had treated another human being.

After long explanations and many apologies Watson understood; and felt more admiration for his friend than he had ever felt for anyone, even his beloved Mary. Holmes and Watson were reunited and the London underworld shivered as it realised that its glory days were at an end, and somewhere in the London fog Inspector Lestrade felt a presence, something was ending. However, Lestrade did not believe in premonitions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Holmes?" Watson ventured, Holmes was still unpredictable and Watson was never sure how he was going to react. It had been three weeks since his return and Watson had noticed some changes. He was more nervous, he had begun talking to himself and he frequently lost his temper, something which Watson had rarely seen him do. Reichenbach had changed him, what had happened to him in that chasm remained a mystery but Watson was desperate to help his friend, bring back the Holmes that he knew and remembered; wherever he was. Holmes looked up from the paper he was reading, his eyes were strangely vacant.

"What happened to you out there?" Watson had wanted to ask that question for weeks, the explanation that Holmes had given on their first meeting seemed hollow; somehow unbelievable. Holmes shifted in his chair.

"It is complicated Watson." He coughed.

"I know, but Holmes, whatever happened is evidently still weighing on your mind, and as your friend I would like to help you if I can." Watson's voice was gentle and calm and Holmes responded to it, his right hand twitched; Watson had noticed this was something else he had picked up since his return and he knew it was not a good sign.

"It was difficult, getting out was difficult. They were after me at every turn I took. Part of me almost wished…" He paused, Watson pushed a little,

"You wished what?"

"That I had died along with Moriarty, that it was what I deserved for allowing him to come so far. I saw his body washed away, the blood turning the water red, in all my years I have never seen a more horrible sight. The one thing that stayed with me were his eyes as I saw him washed away, he was alive then Watson; he was still alive though he could not move. His gleaming yellow eyes followed me as I climbed – they follow me still." His own eyes were fixed on the fire; Holmes was always cold now, though he never felt it before. Watson shuddered, the image of a dying Moriarty filled his mind, and his heart went out to his friend who had suffered so much: and in silence.

"I ran Watson, I could think of nothing else to do. Moriarty's men were everywhere, no matter where I went I could not escape them. They haunted even my dreams." He paused again. Watson frowned as he thought Holmes' story unlikely. According to Mycroft all Moriarty's men had been caught not long after Holmes' disappearance. Watson was concerned.

"What happened after you ran?" Watson prompted, feeling increasingly anxious.

"I travelled, through China and Tibet and I found some sort of peace. It was only when I was able to think more like myself that I felt I could return. Moriarty's men had ceased to follow me and I felt safe for the first time in three years." Holmes did not move his eyes from the fire.

"In Tibet, you found peace. How?" Watson moved closer to his friend who was shivering violently, whether he was aware of it or not. Slowly he draped a blanket around Holmes' shoulders, he did not move. Watson crouched next to him.

"Tell me."

"I studied there, with the people, good people Watson. They healed me. I was in a terrible state when I came to them, suffering from exhaustion, dehydration and a number of other things. I shall forever be grateful for the kindness they showed me."

"And Moriarty's men gradually disappeared?" Watson strained to keep his voice calm.

"Yes, they must have been unable to track me into Tibet."

"Yes." Watson placed his hand on Holmes' arm, still he did not move.

"I still see him Watson."

"Who?"

"Moriarty." Holmes' voice was quiet, his eyes vacant, and his body cold and shivering.

Watson drew a breath and wanted to sob for his friend, his poor broken friend.

"He will go soon, my dear fellow. Soon." Watson stroked Holmes' hand and Holmes closed his eyes.

"Yes soon he will go." Holmes' whispered, resting his head against the back of the chair, gradually his breathing regained a steady rhythm and his shivering ceased. Still Watson crouched next to him until he was sure Holmes was asleep. It was as he feared, Holmes' mind was becoming lost to him, soon his friend would be gone and the Holmes he knew, dead; never to return. A silent tear rolled down Watson's cheek as he watched his friend sleep. He would protect him; he would never let Holmes be taken away, never. Another tear followed the first and Watson angrily wiped it away with his sleeve. He stood and walked to the window. He thought about telling Mycroft but decided against it, he must already have his suspicions about Holmes' state of mind; there was no need to confirm them. After all he was a doctor, he was more than capable of taking care of Holmes and in time he would be back to normal. In the meantime however, Holmes must be watched, and never left out of his sight. Watson sighed as he again glanced at his sleeping friend. Out of the corner of his eye something yellow glistened, Watson rubbed his tired eyes and looked again. He shook his head, nothing, just a trick of the light, a gleam from the fire. Maybe he too would begin to lose his mind if Holmes did not recover soon…


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Mycroft sat with his back to the window; he was not interested in the goings on of the outside world. He was aware of Sherlock's illness and he was aware Watson was trying to keep it from him. He understood that: still there was not much he could do other than ensure secrecy. He remained motionless in his chair; the good thing about the Diogenes club was that it did allow a person to think. He now understood why Sherlock had never collected the money he had sent or taken the flat he had offered. His state of mind would not allow it. Watson had given away glimpses of his concern for Sherlock, he had mentioned something about Sherlock imagining Moriarty still alive and Watson himself had even talked of someone following them. Mycroft did not believe it, although he also could not be sure that all of Moriarty's men were caught. He grunted in his anguish. An elderly looking gentlemen seated across the room looked up angrily at him for disturbing the peace. Mycroft again lowered his head. He knew what he must do, he could do very little sitting still, he must see Sherlock. Having made up his mind, he struggled to his feet, his body rebelling against this sudden movement. Putting on his coat he exited this realm of peace and went into the cold autumn night to face his brother, something that, until now, he had never been unwilling to do.

Watson felt his eyelids drooping and he shot his head back to keep awake. Holmes was asleep opposite him but Watson never slept at the same time. Holmes' nightmares were too violent, something could happen. He ran a hand across his brow and sighed quietly. He was not sure how much longer he could keep Holmes' condition a secret. It was too hard for only himself to cope with. Holmes had consulted on cases and to all intents and purposes he was the Holmes of old, his eccentricities were well known to the society of London so when Sherlock Holmes did something unusual the London papers were not interested; it was his behaving normal that they picked up on. That thankfully Holmes was not doing. Watson smiled at the paradox. But here in the privacy of their rooms, Holmes succumbed to his demons. The nightmares were more frequent and often ended with his screams; Watson soothed him with words and morphine, the only thing strong enough to contain his fits. The morning that followed was always calm, Holmes was cheerful and nonchalant. Only his eyes betrayed his gratitude to his friend, the one who had kept him alive through the night. Watson was thankful for these glimpses of his friend, the one he remembered, however brief. He was just beginning to drop off again when he heard a carriage pull up outside the door. He stood up, glancing at his friend as he moved to the window, looking out he was staggered to see Mycroft emerge and rap at the door. Watson ran out into the hall to greet him, Holmes did not stir.

"Mycroft." Watson's voice was tight as he held out his hand to his friend's brother. Mycroft took it and shook it gently.

"Doctor, how is he?" Mycroft's eyes went up the stairs, Watson followed them.

"He is fine, why should he not be?" Watson attempted to keep his voice calm.

"You don't need to pretend Doctor; I know his state of mind. I say again, how is he?"

Watson sighed, he had feared as much.

"Tired, the nightmare's he suffers are becoming more frequent, and I am afraid to say more violent."

"I will see him," Mycroft headed up stairs when Watson placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"He is sleeping, for the first time, without morphine, I don't think…" Watson was cut off by a loud scream for above; they both raised their eyes in fear at the sound. Mrs. Hudson appeared from the kitchen, sadness in her eyes; she too knew the state of affairs, she was a woman with too much sense not to.

"Doctor.." She began faltering.

"Everything is perfectly alright Mrs. Hudson, we will see to it. Do not worry." He offered her a smile which she feebly returned as she turned away from them. Dr. Watson watched her go through the kitchen door then followed Mycroft up the stairs. He entered the sitting room to find Holmes curled on the floor in his brother's massive arms. Mycroft held his brother's head against him and whispered to him. Sherlock nodded, Watson could not decipher what was said but it seemed to calm Sherlock and he ceased to shake. Mycroft helped him to his feet and sat him down.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft searched his brother's eyes and despaired to see the coldness there, "Can you understand me?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes staring ahead of him.

"Look at me as I talk to you."

Sherlock brought his eyes to meet his brother's. He seemed to recognise him and for a fleeting second Watson saw his friend's eyes return. Mycroft smiled.

"Welcome back."

Sherlock smiled,

"Take me away." His voice was cracked with emotion, Mycroft merely nodded as he stood. He turned to Watson,

"Fetch Mrs. Hudson, have her make up a bag of his things; enough for a week."

Watson could do nothing but nod; he resented Holmes being taken from him but saw the necessity of it. His brother after all was a better person for him to be with. Watson walked mournfully downstairs where he delivered his orders, and then he waited by the front door. The autumn air cooled him and his thoughts calmed. Not long after, Mycroft came down, followed by his brother. Holmes looked more himself than Watson had seen him in weeks. As Mycroft passed through the door, he gave Watson a brief glance that betrayed nothing, not even gratitude for the man who had saved his brother's life. Sherlock followed, he stopped by the door and took Watson's hand; his eyes said all his lips could not.

"It won't be for long Watson." He attempted to smile, but it died. Watson did smile back, grasping Holmes' hand tighter.

"No, not for long." He held back the tension in his voice. Holmes said nothing but released Watson's hand, following Mycroft into a waiting carriage. He did not look back as the carriage drew away; Watson had already shut the door.


	5. Chapter 5

-1_Hi all, this may be the last chapter of this fic, it does end a bit abruptly so it may be a good place to end. Let me know what you think because I'm willing to carry on with it if people like it. If not we'll leave it here! Let me know anyway…Thanks as always to everyone who reads and reviews!! Loads a love, Amy xx_

**Chapter Five.**

The city was dark; the cold glare of the lamplight hurt his eyes but he did not look away. Instead he faced them head on, almost wishing the light to burn him - he craved the pain. He craved any feeling. He turned from the light and continued to walk. Mycroft had warned him of the danger of going out alone at night; told him that he was not yet ready, but he had paid him no attention. He did not fear the streets any more now than before his…illness. He craved the energy of the people he encountered, viewed them from afar with a certain envy. He would pause sometimes in the cold dawn light and observe the poor wretches of London's east end and wonder to himself why they smiled. For smile they did, and often. Holmes could not bring himself to smile in return. He was angry at these people for stealing the happiness that should have been his. He approached a group of men lounging outside a pub and tipped his hat to them.

"Alright Guv" one of the more rough looking men said, "Bit early for the likes o' you ain't it?" He laughed loudly, Holmes merely smiled.

"I rarely sleep."

"Reckon you need a good woman mar mate." Laughed another, again Holmes smiled enigmatically.

"Perhaps."

"Oi Sally!" One of them shouted into the bar beyond. A girlish giggle reached Holmes' ears that was somewhat familiar, but he could not discern from where. Soon after the girl herself fell into the waiting arms of the rough looking man and she giggled again.

"Watch it John, I'm a delicate lily me" She laughed again and stroked an elegant hand over his rough face, he grabbed it and kissed her palm. Holmes shuddered involuntarily. The girl pulled away her hand and looked at Holmes, as she registered him her brown eyes flashed for a second, then died away to the dullness that was there before. Holmes noticed this but said nothing. The man flung her at Holmes who caught her nimbly with one arm. Sally looked at him and straightened herself; suddenly she turned with fury to the man who had thrown her.

"Whatchya wanna go do that for? The poor gent dain't know what to do wiv 'imself." She then turned to Holmes with a smile that he always had thought such women incapable of bestowing.

"Terribly sorry Sir, they're a bunch of ruffians really, good fur nuffin oafs!" She shouted this last part to the gang who merely laughed boisterously in return. Gently she took Holmes' arm and led him down the alley, Holmes did not resist. When they had turned the corner and were out of sight, the girl pushed Holmes against the wall. Before he could resist her, her hand clamped over his mouth and she smiled. The most beautiful smile Holmes had ever seen, she felt him relax under her arm.

"Now Mr. Holmes suppose you tell me what you're doing wandering around this part of London and at this extremely unrespectable hour of the morning?" She smiled again and removed her hand. Holmes looked at her breathlessly. A single word escaped his lips.

"Irene."

They were seated before a glowing fire in rooms in a slightly more respectable part of London just as dawn was breaking over the Thames. Irene had made tea and was curled in a chair opposite Holmes her feet under her, and her hands cradling the steaming cup. Her gaze was directed atr the fire but Holmes' gaze was directed at her. She was trul beautiful, even in excessive make-up and dirt on her face she was the most exquisite creature Holmes had ever encountered. He admired her unashamedly, she did not glance up at him as he adored her. When she did Holmes averted his eyes to the tea cup he held. Irene smiled.

"So, now we are alone and in a more congenial setting. Are you going to tell me what you were doing/" Her voice was as soft as a caress and Holmes found himself embarrassed in her presence. He shifted uncomfortably in her chair trying to keep his eyes from resting on her scantily clad figure.

"I was merely observing my species from a different angle," he smiled back at here, "and you? I have to say I was more than a little shocked to find you there, considering I believed you dead."

His eyes settled on her and she cleared her throat.

"Maybe I wanted to be thought dead. You, yourself have used the same lie when it suited you."

"It did not suit me." Holmes snapped and stood, his tea cup clattering to the floor. Irene uncurled her legs and straightened in her seat. Holmes passed a hand over his brow and bent down at Irene's feet to retrieve the cup. Before he could do so she had also fallen to her knees and had clasped his hands in her own.

"My dear Mr. Holmes - for you have always been that to me - tell me what has befallen you and as your friend I promise to listen and never to judge."

Holmes stared into her beautiful brown eyes and could not speak, he lowered his head and released his hands. A sigh escaped his lips as he stood. He turned and held out a hand to Irene, she took and raised herself.

"It is not a petty story. It involves death, murder and madness. Are you prepared for that?" He asked quietly, still holding her hand.

"I am prepared for anything. I always have been."

"Yes, I believe that Miss. Adler. Or is it Mrs. Norton?" Holmes raised a distinguished eyebrow and cocked his head toward her. She released her hand and turned from him.

"It is neither." She said abruptly, "It is Sally, Sally Sparrow. For the time being anyway." Her frown erupted into a smile and she fell into her chair. Holmes sat opposite her and smiled. He told her his story, omitting nothing and she listened with interest and sincerity. Holmes felt released when he had finished and he leaned back into his chair avoiding her eyes, fearing disgust, pity, remonstration. Prepared for anything but what he received. Silently Irene walked over to him and placed herself at his feet. With a tear glistening on her ivory cheek she took Holmes' hand and kissed it.

"Oh my poor detective. How cruelly life has used us both." Holmes' looked at her, his own self-pity washing away for the first time in three years. He bent over her and stroked her chestnut hair gently, fearing to find reality in this dream in which he found himself. He bent to her and kissed the head resting on his knee.

"Life, is indeed cruel my dear Miss…"he paused Irene's tear stained face smiled up at him, "Sparrow." She smiled and placed her head again on his knee.

"But I feel tonight will change both our fortunes." he leaned back and only the night and the ghosts heard his whisper.

"For better or for worse."

And the wind swept it away and never again did Sherlock Holmes feel pity for himself while another human being suffered.


	6. Chapter 6

_This is definitely the last chapter of this fic, but it leads on to another that I'm planning that will hopefully follow soon. Thank you for all your reviews, I always love to know what you all think. So as always, let me know! Amy xxx_

**Chapter Six.**

It was a little after midnight when Holmes returned to Baker Street. He had left Irene asleep in her small flat with a silent promise to return. He had stroked her hair as she slept and cursed his own solitary nature. Looking up at the window of his rooms, all was dark and silent. He sighed as he approached the door. Twisting the key in the lock as silently as he could, he crept up the well-remembered steps. He raised an eyebrow as he noticed a flickering light from under the door. He approached slowly, gently turning the knob, he entered. His face relaxed into a smile as he saw Watson asleep in his chair, a small solitary candle glimmering by his side, a discarded book on the floor. Holmes walked over to him, deciding it would be better to wake him and alert him to his presence; than having Watson find him there without an explanation in the morning.

Holmes bent and touched Watson's arm gently, he immediately sprang awake, _Must be all that time in the army_, Holmes thought as Watson's eyes began to register him.

"Holmes?" Watson's voice was quiet, almost reverential. Holmes smiled.

"Yes it's me."

"When…How?" Watson faltered.

"Only just." Holmes replied, reading Watson's thoughts, as always, "I am recovered Watson, the Holmes you knew has returned, although that might not altogether be a good thing." Holmes smiled as he stood up.

"I can't believe it. Where have you been? Are you sure you are quite well?"

Holmes sank into the chair opposite gratefully, the feeling of home returning to his war-weary bones,

"I am more than recovered Watson, thanks to…Well, I'm grateful to a number of people. Not least of all you." Holmes paused in the process of lighting his pipe and looked across at his friend. Watson cleared his throat.

"I only did what anyone would have done."

"Nonsense Watson, you know I don't count modesty among a man's virtues, and you have no reason to be modest. Without you I would have been exposed to the world as a hopeless lunatic, only you believed me. You may have saved my life Watson – as well as my reputation." Holmes added with a whimsical smile.

"It was a life worth saving, and I think your reputation would have stood the test."

Holmes shrugged, and leaned his head back.

"Holmes…Where have you been?" Watson probed gently.

Holmes kept his head back and his eyes closed,

"My brother took me to the house I grew up in. It's been empty for years. I grew up in Sussex Watson; and by and large it was a happy childhood. A beautiful house set amongst rolling hills. It was peaceful. Overtly sinister in appearance perhaps, but peaceful for one such as myself. Mycroft knew well enough to let me alone and let my thoughts reorder themselves. This he did, he came to check on my progress, every day or so. If he was happy I was in no danger, away he would go again. Gradually I began to recover and yearned for the hurry of London. And so, I have returned. After renewing an old acquaintance – merely by accident – I came straight here."

Watson had listened without a word, he knew Holmes was not telling him all, but he accepted this because Holmes never did. Watson was simply grateful he had returned and he was well. There was something present in his eyes that Watson had not seen there before, some remnant of his illness perhaps. Watson could not be sure, but nevertheless Holmes was alive, and he was here. Watson sighed in silent gratitude.

"Are you going to bed Holmes?"

"Not just yet Watson. I think I'll sit up for a while, I have some things to think about."

A ring of smoke curled above Holmes' head as he spoke.

"A case?" Watson asked his voice tinged with excitement.

"It may perhaps lead to one Watson. Perhaps, if I can save her."

"Her?"

Holmes glanced at his friend, his eyes taking on the cold stare they had always held.

"Yes, her. The only _her _there will ever be in my life."

Watson raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He was puzzled but it was no use pushing Holmes, he did not respond to pressure.

"Well if you need me." Watson raised a hand in mock salute, not quite reaching his forehead. Holmes smiled.

"Thank you Watson, goodnight." His eyes returned to an empty fireplace. Watson remained for a minute, as if finding it hard to believe that Holmes was there, sitting in the chair he had always occupied and a chill crept to his heart. Whatever Holmes had returned as it was not the Holmes he remembered. This Holmes was saddened by life, corrupted by those he had fought against for so long. Watson feared this man a little. He sighed; Holmes had already forgotten he was there. Irene and her tears filled all his thoughts and the only course of action he could fix on was that of revenge. For himself and for her.


End file.
